The Judge's Daughter

by Ruth Hamilton

  The canine dog was certainly having his day. Replete and exhausted by the effort of over-eating, Oscar lay at Eva’s feet. They seemed to be indulging in synchronized snoring – the company was suddenly silent as each person became aware of the comic scene.

  Oscar rolled over and broke the rhythm. ‘Shame, that,’ muttered Fred. ‘I were going to accompany them two on me comb and paper.’

  Kate and Albert laughed. They were the best neighbours in the world and Agnes was glad to know them.

  Denis was joking with George. The scars left on Denis’s lungs had not been too troublesome this winter, so that was another worry gone.

  Only Louisa remained. Agnes cast an eye over the young woman who had married a man twice her age in order to secure a safe future for herself. But she had gained a good friend in her stepdaughter and motherhood would surely bring its own reward. Yet her husband remained in the house even though he was absent. It was as if he stained everything he touched, because each person here had been affected by him to a greater or lesser degree.

  The thoughts came full circle. Agnes found herself gazing at Helen yet again. Laughing and joking, she seemed to fool most people, though Agnes was not convinced by the act. Helen’s anger was so deep that it had cooled all the way down to ice. She had a plan of some kind and it was tied up in the letters held by a Bolton bank under the instruction of George Henshaw. The judge seldom came home; he was threatened by his daughter and chose to keep a distance between himself and his own house.

  Helen arrived at Agnes’s side. ‘You’re quiet.’

  ‘I’m tired – Nuisance is learning to dance.’

  ‘He’ll be born walking, then.’

  ‘Probably. Helen?’

  ‘What? Oh, not again, Agnes. Stop worrying. Nothing will happen. He’ll simply disappear one day and we’ll have peace.’

  ‘Disappear?’

  ‘Yes. Retire abroad – whatever.’

  ‘And Louisa?’

  Helen shrugged. ‘Will stay with me.’

  ‘The baby?’

  ‘We haven’t got there yet. Can’t you just enjoy Christmas, Agnes? You’re surrounded by friends and family, yet you still worry about Father. Forget him. He is a man of no importance.’

  With that, Agnes had to be satisfied.

  Chapter Twelve

  As the date of Louisa’s confinement drew near, Judge Spencer began to spend more time at Lambert House. Louisa, who was in better health, appointed herself peacekeeper during this stressful time. Helen, living in her own apartment, saw little of her father; Louisa, in search of a more tranquil household, divided her time between the two adversaries. She was a poor go-between, as she determinedly avoided conversations involving any controversy, and she realized that the relationship between father and daughter was not easily redeemable. She continued to eat well, using the latter part of her pregnancy as a cocoon inside which she was safe. But she dreaded the afterwards. The real trouble would begin once the baby had been delivered. For now, she was cushioned by her passenger, and she chose not to think too clearly about the birth and its aftermath.

  Helen kept to herself, emerging only to visit Agnes. Mags and Lucy came each Thursday to the Makepeace cottage, and Helen was now part of the group. The subject of Helen’s letter and the accompanying document from the deceased nanny had ceased to wear out telephone lines between the houses of Agnes, Mags and Lucy; the matter was no longer raised in the presence of Helen Spencer, and it seemed to die a natural death as the confinement of Agnes drew near.

  ‘It’s going to be a whopper,’ declared Lucy, who, still slim as a reed, was munching on a chocolate bar.

  ‘I hate you.’ Agnes looked down, tried to see her feet, failed. She raised one leg to display a slightly swollen ankle. ‘Ah, there you are,’ she told the foot. ‘But there should be two of you.’

  Helen ate a sandwich. ‘Louisa looks like a galleon in full sail. I’d swear she was carrying twins, but the doctors say not. It seems she’s storing fluids. If she gets any bigger, we could rent her out as a petrol tanker.’

  ‘Better a commercial vehicle than an object that stays in and waits,’ Agnes grumbled. ‘I’m a thing now – not a person. I’m just a building that’s been placed around this child.’ She patted her belly. ‘I’m going to have a raffle when it’s born. The winner gets the baby, three dozen nappies, a Silver Cross – second hand – and a good supply of clothing.’

  ‘Green Shield stamps?’ asked Lucy.

  ‘Definitely not. I’m saving up for a coffee percolator.’ Agnes winced. ‘I didn’t like that.’

  ‘What?’ asked Mags.

  ‘Pain in my back.’

  Helen sat up straight in her chair. She had read a book about labour and considered herself something of an expert. ‘It can start there,’ she advised cheerfully. ‘The coccyx moves.’

  ‘Does it?’ Agnes shifted her weight. ‘I’m not due. The coccyx can stay where it is or it’ll be raffled off along with the rest.’

  The three women stared hard at their friend.

  ‘Stop it!’ she yelled. ‘Unless you paid to come in, you are not to look at the exhibits. Also, this zoo is closed until the spring. We are hibernating. Now, bugger off and let me get some sleep.’

  Helen remained when the others had left. She declared her intention to stay until Denis got home. The book was in the car. A person who could read could deliver a child; a person who could read had failed to deliver a simple crème caramel . . . ‘Any more pain?’

  ‘No. The only discomfort I’m feeling comes from the expression on your face. I’m not due for a couple of weeks. Even if it does start, it can take days. God – can we not talk about something else?’

  Helen grinned. ‘Yes, we can. Your grandfather’s work is on display in the main hall at Lambert House. It is brilliant, though. He did the immediate garden, and the house lifts off, section by section, until you reach the cellars. Father said – to Louisa, of course – that Mr Grimshaw can bring people in to look at his handiwork. The TV people are to be involved again, along with several newspapers. Your grandfather is a star.’

  Agnes groaned.

  ‘Are you all right?’

  ‘No, I’m not all right. He’s bad enough without being a bloody star. It’ll all go to his head. He’ll get himself excited, then he’ll start going too fast for his own good. Poor Eva and Albert will bear the brunt. There’ll be no living with him.’

  ‘Oh, dear. Sorry.’

  ‘Not your fault. He will push himself until he has another stroke, but that’s his nature. Or he may prove too stubborn to have another attack – he could outlive us all. He will certainly brag about his house in your house.’

  ‘Never mind.’

  ‘Exactly.’

  Helen smoothed her skirt. ‘Our father who isn’t in heaven is talking of retirement. According to Louisa, he intends to spend much of his time on the yacht. I never saw her more pleased, because she won’t take a baby to sea. We may survive despite him.’

  Agnes looked at her visitor. She knew full well that Helen’s brain seldom rested, that her thoughts were predominantly about her father and the damage he had done throughout his life. More specifically, there was one occasion in particular that had resurrected itself and Helen brooded about whatever it was. There was no point in asking; Agnes had stopped wasting time in that area months earlier. ‘Denis will be home soon. Go back and make sure that Louisa is OK.’

  ‘You’re due before she is.’

  ‘I know that, Helen, but babies are not trains – they don’t run to a timetable.’

  ‘Nor do trains. All right, all right, I shall go. Phone me if you need me. Promise?’

  ‘Promise.’

  Helen bent and planted a kiss on her sister’s head. These babies would thrive in safety. Whatever it took, Helen Spencer would make sure of that.

  ‘Helen, why don’t you find yourself a nice man? Has there been no one since—’

  ‘Since the balding eagle? No.’
/>   ‘I was going to say since Denis.’

  ‘Ah.’ Helen blushed. ‘Denis was one of my crazy times. I suppose I went through my teenage at thirty-two. No. My energies are directed elsewhere. Into writing, for a start.’

  ‘For a start? I thought you’d stopped.’

  Helen sighed. ‘My dear, disabuse yourself of the mistaken concept that an author writes only with a pen or a typewriter. Every waking moment is spent writing. In here.’ She tapped her head. ‘It’s a collection box. When it gets full, I shall empty it, discard the dross and polish the good stuff.’

  ‘But no man?’

  ‘No.’

  It was more than writing, mused Agnes when Helen had left. She was concentrating on something, and the something was a worry. Denis, too, had remarked on the preoccupation of Miss Helen Spencer. She was up to no good. But the room was warm and sleep beckoned. With her hands folded on the ever-increasing mound of her belly, Agnes slept the sleep of the very pregnant.

  Denis came out of the pub. He was two quid better off after a game of dominoes and was looking forward to a brisk walk homeward. When he reached the bottom of the lane that led up to Skirlaugh Rise, he stopped. ‘Judge Spencer? What are you doing here?’

  ‘Waiting for you.’

  ‘Ah.’ What did the old beggar want at this time of night? ‘I’m on my way home,’ said Denis.

  ‘I know. Just give me five minutes. It’s about my daughter.’

  Denis cleared his throat. ‘Oh? Which one?’

  ‘Helen.’

  ‘Right. What do you want from me?’

  Much as he hated to beg, Zachary knew that he had no alternative. ‘Talk to her. Ask her whether she would thrive if she made public the contents of Mabel Turnbull’s meanderings. Ask whether her expected sibling would thrive on the exposure of such lies. I just want . . .’ What did he want?

  ‘Yes?’ asked Denis.

  ‘I want things back to normal – family meals and so forth – the way Louisa had it when we were first married. My daughter hates me, but something must be done before my son is born.’

  Denis did not ask how the judge would feel should the son turn out to be yet another daughter. ‘I don’t carry that much weight with Miss Helen, sir.’

  ‘You carried enough to strike me a few months ago. Try. I want my house in some sort of order.’ He placed a hand on Denis’s arm. ‘Tell me – how is Agnes?’

  Denis blinked. Was the old bugger softening in his old age? ‘She’s OK, thanks. Getting a bit fed up with the weight and the swollen ankles, drinks a lot of bitter lemon – she’s uncomfortable.’

  ‘Give her my best wishes.’ With that last unnerving request, the man disappeared into the blackness of the Rise. ‘Blood and stomach pills,’ mumbled Denis, ‘he has to be going off his rocker.’ Perhaps insanity ran in the family? Or was the judge genuinely interested in improving the lives of all around him? Probably not. He was more likely to be making an attempt to make his own existence more bearable.

  Denis entered the house. His wife was asleep in a chair, feet propped on a padded footstool, hands folded across her swollen abdomen. Give her Judge Spencer’s best wishes? Not likely – he wanted to keep her blood pressure at an acceptable level. He kissed her. ‘Cocoa?’

  Agnes opened an eye. ‘Bitter lemon, please.’

  ‘You don’t like bitter lemon. You’ve always hated bitter lemon.’

  She yawned. ‘Tell that to the passenger on the lower deck. It’s all his fault.’

  Denis made his cocoa while Agnes chattered on about the visit of Mags, Lucy and Helen, complaining loudly about Lucy, who could eat sweets and chocolates with obvious impunity. ‘I haven’t had chocolate in six months,’ she moaned.

  ‘Have some cocoa – that’s chocolate.’

  But no, she had to have her bitter lemon. They sat in front of the fire like an old married couple, each too tired to talk or move. Agnes knew that this was a precious time, that the marriage would change once there were three of them. ‘I love you, kid,’ she told her husband. ‘I’m saying it now before the dynamics get bewildered, before I become all nappies and feeds and walks with a pram.’

  Denis grinned. She would be the best mam in the world. And he couldn’t wait to be a dad.

  He woke sweating again. As far as he could remember, Zachary had never suffered from nightmares. Even after . . . after that business many years ago, he had slept the sleep of the just.

  He switched on a lamp and struggled into a sitting position. The room was cool, yet his skin seemed to be heated by the fires of hell. Some medics were of the opinion that everyone had dreams and that they were often forgotten, but Zachary had not been aware of dreaming. Until now. Until now, when his daughter occupied the witness stand, the judge’s seat and every space along the jury’s benches. Almost every night during his sleep, she appeared and screamed out his sins for the world to hear. Journalists dashed in all directions, each needing to be the first to break the story of a corrupt judge.

  When he poured the brandy, decanter and glass shook in uncertain hands. He could do nothing, because Helen had protected herself. Even were she to die of natural causes, the documents would be opened. Brandy burned in his throat, dragging into his digestive tract any vestige of heat that had been present in his sweat-slicked body. The shivering began, so he staggered to a wardrobe, found an extra blanket and placed it on his bed. Denis Makepeace? Forced to beg the help of one of his two manservants, he hated his daughter all the more. He should have made an ally of her, because she was proving to be a formidable enemy. Women were stealing positions of authority, were called to the bar, were becoming hospital consultants and managers of industry. He should have noticed, should have encouraged her.

  It was too late for that. But it was never too late to paper over cracks. He, Louisa, Helen and the expected child should cobble together an outwardly happy picture of domesticity. Denis, nearer in age to Helen, might just be able to plead the cause on his master’s behalf. But even Denis had little time for his employer. He did his duty and no more, was always keen to return to his wife or to his other job. It all boiled down to those damned letters in the vault of some damned bank, contents to be revealed in the event of Helen’s demise.

  Retirement beckoned. Many judges continued into their dotage, but this judge was standing – or sitting – on rocky ground. He had his yacht and could disappear whenever he chose, but first, he had to be here for the birth of Louisa’s child. Another brandy slipped down into his stomach and he leaned back against the pillows. He needed sleep, dreaded the dream, hoped that the brandy would preclude it. It wasn’t fair. Life had never been fair. Pitying himself for his gross misfortunes, Judge Spencer fell asleep for a second time. And the dream came again.

  For the sake of Louisa, Helen agreed to the terms put forward via Denis. An uneasy truce ensued, with all three Spencers eating together in the main dining room when the judge was at home. When he was away, the two women returned to Helen’s apartment to experiment with Helen’s faith in reading as a basis for cookery. She improved, though meals created by Kate Moores remained superior to Helen’s efforts.

  A rhythm developed. Breakfast was taken in Helen’s part of the house, as was lunch; then, if the judge was at home, a later meal was served at the dining table downstairs. The women read, watched television, became addicted to The Archers on the radio. While Louisa napped, Helen dealt with Oscar. It was the happiest time in Helen’s life thus far. She had her family at last – Louisa, Agnes and the dog.

  The dog, walked by Helen every day, always made a beeline for the Makepeace cottage. He had three homes, and he made determined use of every one of them. Agnes and Fred usually kept scraps for him; he was having an excellent life – as long as he stayed away from the big man.

  On the day of the second visit by Granada, Helen and Oscar returned, with Agnes, to a house of turmoil. Cameras and boom microphones took up most of the space. Kate, who was still running around like a cat on hot bricks, had polish
ed to within an inch of its life anything that failed to move – the hall sparkled. In its centre sat a large table on which was displayed Fred’s latest work of art. Even his granddaughter gasped in wonderment when she saw the model. Pop was gifted. If he could learn to keep quiet, he would go far.

  But he didn’t keep quiet. Fred delivered a lecture on life’s never being over until the lid settled on the coffin; he berated all who retired to idleness and argued with the interviewer that tiredness and ill-health were no excuse for inactivity. ‘Everybody should be doing,’ he said fiercely. ‘There’s no excuse for sitting and doing nowt.’

  ‘But what about disability?’ asked the poor newsman.

  ‘I’m disabled. I’ve had a stroke and was as daft as a brush for a while. No excuse. You have to keep at it.’

  Agnes hid her face in one of Denis’s handkerchiefs. She knew her Pop inside out, knew he wasn’t one to change his mind even when in the wrong.

  When cameras and microphones were switched off, the interviewer collared Agnes. ‘How do you put up with him?’ he asked.

  ‘I don’t. I sold him to the highest bidder and she sold her shop to afford him. He’s a kind man in his way. He just wants to encourage folk to be useful.’

  ‘Yes, and he’ll have several of them depressed. Some people really can’t do anything. But his work is brilliant. He’ll be doing models of all the big houses soon.’

  ‘He won’t. He’s booked up for two years. So if you want a house for your daughter, you’ll have to wait.’

  The man grinned. ‘I ordered mine months ago. I could tell then that he was unusual.’ He walked away.

  Unusual? Fred was a one-off, a treasure, a pest and a wonderful man. He was now tackling the judge, who had come home to bask in the reflected glory of Fred’s model of Lambert House. ‘You can’t retire,’ said Fred. ‘Judges don’t retire – they die with their wigs on.’

  Judge Spencer was not used to such bluntness. ‘I’ve served my country,’ he answered stiffly.